


Domestic

by Agent_24



Series: A Lingering [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Abandonment, Blackwatch Era, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Recall, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 21:39:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8639023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_24/pseuds/Agent_24
Summary: Separation versus coexistence; the action or state of moving or being moved apart versus the action or state of existing together, at the same time, or in the same place.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Listen to the [WANDER](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LIgipISefZE) mix created by [Pulse8](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCnOTVWVaIh3NoJsbwq4Tucg).

* * *

  **Separation**

* * *

 

He woke up cold.

It wasn’t because the Blackwatch AI was slacking; Ares always kept the base at a constant, comfortable range between sixty-four and seventy degrees. It wasn’t for lack of clothes either. Gabriel always slept in sweatpants, and the blankets were already pulled up to his chin.

He blinked blearily, looked at the two blinking communicators on his dresser. And therein lay the problem: there was no body on the left side of the bed to obscure his view.

His next breath came out as a slow shudder as the memory of it hit him like a sucker punch. McCree’s datapad had been left on the nightstand, and beside it, his earpiece. The hoverbike he’d stolen had been found parked neatly and abandoned in South Dakota, UserID signed out and not even a footprint left to hint at where McCree might have gone.

For a moment, Gabriel lamented. He’d trained McCree too well.

The pang in his chest returned, sharp and forceful, like his ribs were caving in around his heart. The space to his left was cool, untouched, and still faintly smelled like the cowboy. Gabriel hated it, how Jesse had collected all his belongings out of Gabriel’s room, and yet had still somehow left his mark.

He took inventory without meaning to: the spot between the bed and the nightstand (where Jesse’s boots went), the hook by the door (where Jesse hung his hat over Gabriel’s hoodie), the empty spot on Gabriel’s dresser (where Jesse kept one of the tool kits he used to maintain his arm). Everything, even the most average, mundane things reeked of Jesse McCree, and had the gunslinger prodding at the back of his mind.

Gabriel thought that was a little unfair.

It had been two weeks. He’d washed his covers, washed his clothes. He swore he could still smell Jesse when he moved a certain way. Jesse’s pillow still smelled faintly of tobacco and cologne, sweet ginger, vanilla, cocoa.

He allowed himself a moment of weakness, pressed his cheek into the pillow, mourned how cool it was. He wouldn't go looking any more than he already had, but the lack of a goodbye still lingered in the back of his mind. It _stung,_ the idea that Jesse thought Gabriel would try to make him stay, or that he didn't care enough to at least ask for one last moment between the two of them.

Gabriel reached for his communicator. On his dresser, the cowboy’s rang; in his hands, Jesse’s hologram appeared.

“You've reached Agent McCree. Sorry, sweetheart, m’either mighty busy or mighty dead. Pray God it ain’t the second, or Reyes’ll kick my ass.”

 

* * *

  **Coexistence**

* * *

 

He woke up cold.

...Or chilly, at least; his nerves didn’t work like they once did, didn’t note minute changes in temperature. But there was a noticeable lack of warmth by his side, a noticeably absent body in his bed.

He sat upright sharply, felt along the mattress with numb fingers. It took a moment to decide that he felt coolness, absence; there had been no one there for an hour, at least.

He threw back the covers and stumbled out of bed, cold air hitting his bare chest hard. His ears rang with the sudden absence of his pulse, his fingertips slowly prickling with the absence of blood. He floated to the kitchen, stomach dropping when he found it empty, breath punched out of his chest, then whirled towards the living room, glanced at the door with rising panic -

Frigid air hit him hard again; the door swung open, and heavy winter boots kicked it shut. Jesse stumbled to the fireplace and dropped an armload of wood and snow on the floor.

“Haaah, Jesus,” he said as he pulled down his scarf, stiff with thin ice. “Cold enough t’freeze the balls off a brass monkey out there.” He flashed Gabriel a smile as he pulled his aviator off his head. “Mornin’, beautiful. You slept late today.”

Gabriel opened his mouth, then shut it and looked out the glass window in the door. Through the frost, he could see snow coming down in fat flakes.

Jesse followed his gaze. “S’gettin’ heavy,” he said, his tone one of agreement despite Gabriel’s silence. “I chopped some more wood this mornin’, but I reckon we’ll need more by time this storm blows over. S’looking t’be a big one.” He paused, tilting his head as he kicked off his boots and slid his arms out of his coat. “Somethin’ wrong, sugar?”

Gabriel looked back at him sharply, though his eyes dropped to the floor a moment later. “I’m fine,” he said quietly.

Jesse hung his coat on the wall, then tossed a log into the smoldering fire (the reason their room was cold, Gabriel realized). “You sure?” Jesse asked. “You look a little paler’n usual. How’s your heart?”

It ached. Gabriel swallowed and took a moment to take inventory of himself; fingers tingling, delayed beat in his ear. “Slow,” he answered.

“Well now,” Jesse said, carefully laying another log in the fire. He pulled off his gloves and unstrapped his overalls, leaving himself in sweats and thick socks. He flopped down on the couch, arms spread over the back, and motioned for Gabriel to join him. “Hey, come warm me up.”

Gabriel exhaled softly, scratching a scar over his arm. “You know I’m not warm,” he murmured.

Jesse’s smile softened. “Bet you’re warmer than me.”

 _Impossible,_ Gabriel thought as he sank against the couch and curled against Jesse’s chest. Jesse waited patiently, pressed his mouth to the top of Gabriel’s head, cold fingers stroking Gabriel’s shoulder.

After a while, soft and a little reluctant: “I thought you left.”

“Aw, angel,” Jesse murmured. He wrapped his free arm around Gabriel’s broad frame, kissed into his curls and whispered, “Never, honey.”

“I know,” Gabriel muttered. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Hey now,” Jesse chided, mournful.

“I know.”

“Not again, darlin’, I’d never.”

“I know,” Gabriel repeated. Softer, “I know, Jess.”

Jesse laced their fingers together. Fire crackled in the hearth; on the mantle, a small candle coated the room in pumpkin and vanilla.

 

**Author's Note:**

> rubatosis  
> n. the unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat, whose tenuous muscular throbbing feels less like a metronome than a nervous ditty your heart is tapping to itself, the kind that people compulsively hum or sing while walking in complete darkness, as if to casually remind the outside world, _I’m here, I’m here, I’m here._
> 
> \- The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows


End file.
